


Just A Coat

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Alfred is BAMF, And angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aw guys, Batdad, Batfam touches my heart and soul, Batfamily Feels, Batman looks gruff but he's really a big ol softie, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Bruce cares, Bruce doesn't do feelings, Bruce doesn't know how to dad, But he tries anyways there too, But just Dick and Bruce?, Comfort/Angst, Crime Scenes, Dick and Bruce, Dick and Bruce's dead parents bodies, Dynamic Duo, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Funerals, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I HAVE DICK WITH HEAVIER ROMANI CULTURE INFLUENCES THAN IS ACTUALLY CANON, I give you a hint, I love them so much guys, I really REALLY love the parallels between these two characters, I'VE BEEN NOTIFIED THIS IS SLIGHTLY UNCANON, I'm sorry for all the fandoms; my inspirations comes a little from everything so yeah, It's more than that, Jim Gordon deserves the world, Jim Gordon had to start somewhere, Kid Bruce Wayne, Kid Dick Grayson - Freeform, Mainly mine, Mentions of Juvenile centers and orphanages, Namely with a little Bruce Wayne, Origin Story, Original Dynamic Duo, Parallels, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sometimes stuff sucks and the way to make it better is if someone understands, The Circus - Freeform, The title calls it just a coat, There is No Escape, These two together are just lovely, This is the best decision the comic makers ever made, Young Bruce Wayne, all teh fluff, batman and robin will never die, but he tries, just wanted to let you know, mentions of dead bodies, namely, so much fluff and angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-07 23:37:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12242856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: When Bruce Wayne is a child, he loses his parents and his world becomes cold. Jim Gordon places a coat on his shoulders and reminded him that there was still warmth and light.Years later, Dick Grayson is a child, he loses his parents and his world becomes cold. Bruce places a coat on his shoulders and reminds him that there's still warmth and light.And, somehow, the sun rises.(A Fic of Grief, Mourning, Redemption, and Parallels.)





	Just A Coat

**Author's Note:**

> I have literally no idea where this came from, but here you go?
> 
> Actually, no, I do have an idea; the Lego Batman Movie song I Found You that basically insured my forever growing love for Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne and Batman and Robin. I officially declare the song the Robin theme song, and once you hear it you will understand.
> 
> LISTEN TO IT GOSH DARN IT!
> 
> On the other hand, this fic literally has nothing to do with the lego Batman verse and kinda just happened because I was probably feeling in a whimsical mood about Dick and Bruce and wanted to satisfy the fluff urges I felt deep within, as well as exploring the amazing parallels between these two amazing characters.
> 
> Still, I have no idea where this came from.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

The alleyway was dark, and cold in more than one sense of the word. It was cold because the sun had long since gone down, the golden rays fading behind the towering buildings and leaving the world behind them shrouded with shadows, temperatures quickly dropping as night fell.

And it was cold because there was no light within that dark alleyway, filled with bustling bodies of uniformed police officers and hushed whispers and whining sirens. The light, the warmth, that had been in the air but a few minutes before had been extinguished with the death of two important socialites, leaving all good and happiness in the world gone. There had once been warmth of the sun, close and unwavering and  _good_ , but now it was gone, the world as cold and as distant as the twinkling harsh white light of the stars above.

He had looked at the stars with wonder, once, too. Now they were simply laughing deities far above, shining and mocking and perfect and beautiful when all the world should have been weeping and ugly and  _cold_.

At least, that was how it felt to the young boy sitting on the fire escape steps, shivering, eyes blank as they stared out at the colorless, dead world. Dull blue orbs straying to the bloodied bodies of his parents to the bloodied fingers of his hands, and back.

Officer Gordon walked onto the scene all business, young and brilliant and filled with righteous justice. He got orders from his commanding officer and went to follow them, to do his job, when he realized that there was a boy, shivering off to the side.

Completely and utterly alone, dealing with the death of his parents, silent and cold and _lost_.

He ended up heading that direction instead, crouching down in front of the young child and slowly placing a hand on the boy's knee.

"Hey, there. Bruce, right? Bruce Wayne? My name's Jim Gordon and-"

" _He shot them_."

Jim paused, his words interrupted, and looked down at the priorly silent boy. The child's eyes, once distant and dull, were bright with anger and a sheen of wetness that he couldn't quite make himself believe came from the distant glow of the street lights above.

"What?"

"He shot them," the boy said again, shaking fingers curling into fists, "he shot them. They- they were giving him what he asked and, and  _he shot them_."

Transparent tears started to streak down the kid's dirtied face, which was covered in flecks of blood and dust. But his eyes were more serious than any that Jim had ever seen, and he knew that whatever innocence the boy once had was lost with two gunshots and the clatter of bloodied pearls.

"It's- It's not right. It's not right. He shot them. He-he shot them. He just-  _he shot them_."

And then came the tears. Guttural broken sobs, the words, "He shot them, he shot them," a muttered mantra through heaving shoulders and a clenched throat, as if the child was trying to keep every inch of sadness and anger and utter depression within himself. Trying to keep himself together through sheer force of will alone. To hide himself from the cold, mocking gaze of the stars above.

Jim did the only thing that he could; pull the boy into his arms and try to hold him together from the outside.

The boy was shaking from suppressed sobs, tired and lost and so, so cold.

"Listen. Bruce, listen to me. I can't imagine how you are feeling right now. I can't imagine your pain. But- Bruce, listen to me- but it's going to be okay. It's going to be okay. You hear me? You are going to be okay, and I will do everything in my power to bring whoever shot your parents to justice."

Someone was calling for him, but he ignored them.  _This_  was more important.

"Bruce? Do you hear me?"

A small, miniscule nod into his shoulder, huffs of breath- warm despite the cold air and shuddering and  _alive_ \- small fingers clutching into his jacket.

"H-he's going to be brought to justice."

The voices calling for him was getting angry now. This was a new job; to ignore a commanding officer could very well get him fired, but….

The boy was shivering in front of him, small- painfully small- and so filled with emotion he couldn't feel anything at all, even as tears slipped down his cheeks.

Jim was wearing a jacket. A nice, heavy one. His father had given it to him upon his acceptance to college, and it had long since been his favorite. It was starting to get a little worn around the edges, the leather having long since lost its sheen, but it was warm and soft and comfortable.

He hesitated.

The boy gave into a another tremble, his entire body shaking with its force.

Someone called for him again, angry and annoyed.

Jim took off his coat- ignoring the cold- and slumped it around Bruce's shoulders. The child looked up at him, blinking with shock and trauma but a little bit of surprise. And all Jim could do was take the kid's hands, which had stayed on the boy's lap, cold and still and lifeless and covered in his parents' blood, and bring them up to grip the coat edges, maneuvering the fingers until he was satisfied that the leather would stay in place.

"Keep watch on that for me, would you?"

The boy said nothing, staring, and Jim walked away to his highly irritated commanding officer.

Small bloodied fingers curled into leather and tugged the article of clothing just a little tighter.

Later, an elderly butler would drive into the scene like a man on a mission, sweeping away 'Master Bruce' in a flurry of hugs and supporting hands, guiding the boy to the long black limo before the paparazzi could arrive. In the chaos and the questions and the blood samples, Jim never got his coat back.

Two days later, he was slightly surprised to see he had been requested to attend the funeral of Thomas and Martha Wayne, but he went anyways.

It rained, the kind of thick rain that made it seem like the whole world was crying. Jim stood at the back, face resolute and solemn, throughout the entire funeral, despite the fact that his shoes became soaked halfway through and he had no umbrella and he wasn't dressed half as nice as every single other guest.

When the service was over, he was surprised when a young Bruce Wayne appeared before him, faithful butler standing behind him with an umbrella massive enough to keep all of them sheltered. The boy's face was resigned, as if he had come to the realization he had to accept that he had emotions, but had also registered that he didn't need to like it.

"Thank you for letting me borrow your jacket."

And there it was, his favorite sodding article of clothing, one that he had dearly missed in the time that it was away. The leather was still the same faded brown and the whole thing still seemed soft and warm and comfortable.

He couldn't wait to have it back, but….

The boy's face was blank, but Jim caught the way that the small fingers curled ever so slightly into the fabric.

Jim took it, hesitated, and then wrapped it around the child's shoulders for the second time. This time, hands automatically reached up to grab at the edges, tugging it closer to him. The boy looked up at him once more, eyes surprised and filled with a quiet sort of gratitude that made Jim know he did the right thing.

"Keep it, kid. It's just a coat."

It was more than that- safety, light,  _warmth_ when the rest of the world had gone so, so cold- but neither of them mentioned it.

* * *

The second time the boy felt the cold of the world, he was no longer a boy, but a man, and the cold was there in only one sense of the word.

The circus tent was actually quite warm, filled with the heat of hundreds of moving and panicking bodies, of animals trumpeting and roaring and stalking around, of insulated temperatures that could not escape through the thick colorful fabric and into the open air.

There was brilliant colour everywhere- so very different from the darkened hues of that alleyway so many years ago- almost bright enough to blind someone. There was splashes of yellow and green and orange and blue wherever one looked, but the most shocking color of all was the brilliant red splattered across the ground at the center of the ring, seeping from the broken bodies of two fallen trapeze artists.

There was no hushed whispers of police officers but dramatic cries of onlookers and the sound of phones being rung and panicked chatter and the snaps of pictures. There was warmth in the air instead of frigid night temperatures. There was colour instead of greys. There was no kind officer with a warm leather coat who was there to reassure that, somehow, the world had not ended and that the sun might just rise again.

But there was still a boy.

A small broken boy shuddering on the ground, hands painted red with his parents' blood and face covered with dirt and sweat and tears making tracks. A small broken boy who had never felt the world feel so, so cold and the sun so, so far away.

And there were two bodies on the ground, bloody and cracked and maimed, gone from the world far too soon, without a chance to even say goodbye.

And there was Bruce.

He was moving before he could even register what he was doing, leaving behind his jacket from where he had taken it off and slipping through the crowds of panicking people who were traumatized by the scene that had played in front of them but had somehow forgotten the little boy who had just lost his entire world. He crouched in front of that boy, between him and the bodies, blocking the horrible view.

For a few brief moments, Bruce struggled, his hands fluttering awkwardly around the small child in front of him, wanting to comfort but not knowing how. Wanting to explain that  _he knows, he knows_ , but being unable to, the words getting stuck in his throat.

He was surprised when the child practically launched himself at him, latching onto him with small but surprisingly strong arms. The boy was shaking, full bodied tremors, and his breath was fast and strained against Bruce's neck. High pitched, terrified traumatized sobs ripped through the small frame, small whines mixing with the murmured mantra.

" _They fell."_

" _They fell."_

" _They fell."_

" _They fell_."

Bruce wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, but he remembered the man with the leather coat and went for wrapping his arms around the boy, tugging him close and hiding him from the entire cold, cold world.

The boy continued to shake in his arms and he probably had blood on his shirt from where the kid was gripping it like a lifeline, but he found that he didn't care. He simply held on tight, saying nothing in silent understanding.

Then, "T-Tony Zucco…"

Bruce blinked.

"What?"

"Tony Zucco. He- he said that- that we hadda p-pay pr-protection money. We d-didn't 'nd n-now the-they  _fell_."

The boy's voice was heavily accented and filled with stutterings and pauses and shaky inhaled breaths, but Bruce understood.

"We'll catch him. I promise, he's not going to get away."

There was a silence, a moment of perfect stillness.

"He needs to be brought to justice."

Tear clouded eyes met blue, but they were clouded also with determination and something strong and _good_ , and Bruce felt a surge of something warm inside of him, something he had not felt in a long while, and yet could not decipher what it was.

"Yes. He does. And he will."

The small body curled back up under his arms, and Bruce sat there, ignoring the cameras taking pictures and the people screaming and yelling and crying. The sounds of sirens was registered, but he stayed where he was, holding a small broken boy- who sobbed and sobbed and sobbed as if his every emotion could not be contained, that every single one had to be released into the air until the cold void inside of him was gone- as he tried to keep him together from the outside.

It was only when the circus master touched his shoulder, eyes haunted and lost, holding his arms out for the trembling boy, that Bruce moved.

He handed the child over, watching as the child latched onto the elder man and sobbed all the harder, and asked the man to wait half a moment.

Then he went and grabbed his suit coat.

It was a nice coat, expensively made but surprisingly warm and comfortable. It would be a shame to lose it.

But Bruce did not hesitate.

He hurried over to the circus master and slipped the coat around the boy's shoulders, tucking it around until he was satisfied it would stay there. The child stilled for half a second, blue watery eyes meeting Bruce's darkened ones, and he tried for a smile, one that would say all the things that he himself could not.

And then the circus master was turning away and the small broken boy was lost from view.

"C'mon, Dick, let's get out of here and back to your trailer…"

Although Bruce did not see it, small bloodied fingers curled into the material and tugged the article of clothing just a little tighter.

Two nights later, a large shadow slipped into the window of  _Gotham's Orphanage for Boys_ , a simple black duffle in hand. He walked silently through the darkness across the hallway boards that would creak if it were anyone else except for the Batman.

The boy had been separated from the other orphans; his screams had kept them up at night.

In utter silence, a gloved hand cracked an old worn door open and he slipped inside.

The room was tiny, the bed in a state of disarray, and there appeared to be a hole in the window that had been hastily covered up with cloth that did nothing to stop the cold air from slipping into the quarters. The blanket could be described as threadbare at best.

And the small figure attempting to bury underneath it could only be described as utterly miserable.

"W-Who's th-there?"

Bruce blinked; he had not expected the kid to be awake.

Batman said nothing, silently placing the duffel onto the boy's bed and stepping back.

Dick blinked back up at him, eyes wide and slightly scared, but mainly sad and tired and haunted.

A small hand reached out for the duffel and the kid sat up. Bruce felt something stutter in his chest, for the kid's other hand was making sure that an elegant suit coat did not slip from his shoulders.

Bruce's elegant suit coat.

The coat fell, however, when the kid realized what was in the bag; his things. Toys, books, a sketchbook with the italicising of  _Mary Grayson_  on the front, an old worn photo album, anything and everything that Bruce had saw and had thought that the boy might have wanted to have. All the things that the boy had not had a chance to pack himself before social services whisked him away.

The boy pulled out a well loved stuffed elephant and crushed it to his chest, shoulders shaking once more as he hunched over and buried his head into the worn grey fabric.

Batman turned to go, and then abruptly pulled to a stop as the feeling of the boy latched onto his legs.

" _Thank you, thank you, thank you than-_ "

"You're welcome."

Deep, objective; Batman voice.

The kid let go and Batman turned to leave once more.

"W-wait!"

He stilled, not turning.

There was a soft pattering of feet and the slide of fabric against fabric.

"Th-There's this man. H-His name is, is Bruce? He- He paid for my  _părinți-_ my parents' funeral, and, and he gave me his- his jackit- jacket? I will- I will not see him again. They is- _are_ moving," the kid's breath hitched, "moving me tomorrow to the- the  _centrul juvenil_ , I-"

The kid held up the coat, which looked rather lifeless without him in it, eyes rather wide and scared but resolute as well. The boy's face was resigned, but Bruce caught the way that the small fingers curled ever so slightly into the fabric.

"Can you bring to him? Say thank you?"

Silence, but then, small quiet and broken and unsure: "Please."

The something in Batman's chest cracked a little more, and he was kneeling before the kid before he knew what he was doing for the second time.

He took the coat, wrapping it around the kid's shoulders once more and watching as small hands reached up and grasped at the edges like a lifeline.

"I know Bruce Wayne. He would want you to have it."

He leaves then, just as silent as he was when he entered- still the shadow, still the night, still  _the Batman_ \- but something significantly different within him nonetheless.

The third time Bruce wraps the coat around the child's shoulders is three weeks later. They were exiting the juvenile center, and the kid was even skinnier and smaller and broken than when Bruce had seen him last. The grip of the small hand he was holding was tight and the sky blue orbs were distant and haunted and wandering, but Bruce plodded along anyways to retrieve the boy's things.

He handed the boy the elephant first, remembering the night he had visited and knowing it meant  _something_. And then he took the now mussed up suit coat and knelt in front of the kid, wrapping it around the too thin shoulders and pretending to not notice how the kid stared up at him as if he had hung the moon in the stars above.

As if he was the very sun itself.

"There you go, you ready?"

He smiles, but the kid is staring at him still, eyes wide.

"Is you- are you sure… you do not want- want it back?"

Bruce tucks it a little tighter around Dick's shoulders, feeling a strange sense of deja vu from a cold rainy day from many years before.

"Keep it, kid. It's just a coat."

It was more than that- safety, light, protection,  _warmth_ when the rest of the world had gone so, so cold- but neither of them mentioned it.

No words needed to be said.

They walked out of the center, and somewhere above them, the sun was rising.

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo? What d'ya think? It's kind of a spur of a moment thing, but I like it. Thoughts?
> 
> Thanks for reading, my friends!
> 
> PS: Also, I also TRIED to include some Romani in Dick's speech. I have no idea if I did it right. If you have any advice on how to make it more authentic, please tell me! Also, I have been notified that Dick actually isn't as connected to that part of his heritage as I thought he was, making this fic slightly uncanon. However, when I was writing this fic I had no idea, and furthermore I quite enjoy the concept of having tiny Grayson child expressing more of this culture and its influences, so I've left the story as it is. If this bothers you, I apologize, and I hope you can enjoy anyways. Thank you to everyone who helped me figure this all out!!
> 
> Double PS: I am aware that Gordon's real name is James, but his nickname is Jim and it sounds better in my head. *shrugs*
> 
> Triple PS: I have also been informed that there wasn't actually orphanages in this time period! Which I found an interesting tidbit of info. So that also makes it kind of uncanon, but the wills of ARTISTIC LIBERTY *majestic song and pose* allow me to run free with the idea anyway. MUWAHAHA!!! :) Again; sorry if this bothers anyone. *hugs*


End file.
